


Beauty

by babyrubysoho



Category: Nightmare (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cheese, Fairy Tale Style, Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Sakito POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6855430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern retelling of Beauty and the Beast, with Hitsugi starring as the least intimidating Beast ever, and Sakito as the object of his affections (now that's just smart casting). Slightly inspired by Angela Carter's fairy tale retellings. But more cheesy.</p><p>*Note: I am currently transferring 12 years’ worth of my fic from various murky corners of the Net to AO3. So if this looks familiar, that’s probably why. Either that or I’m just appallingly unoriginal…*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Snow blew skittishly along the road, the wind twisting it into fierce spirals; but it fell serenely against the windows of the tipsy house, in deference to the figure behind the glass. Sakito looked out at the darkening skyline, his fine skin as pale as the flakes that blurred his vision, waiting, waiting for his master’s return. He furrowed his delicate brow and pushed a lock of dark hair behind his ear, sighing worriedly. His beauty lit the dim room faintly but he continued to stare, oblivious to his loveliness.  
  
_He said he’d be back by dark_. Sakito bit his delicate lower lip, remembering the state of Ni~ya’s car. Nothing had been past all day, and the despondent crackle when he tried his phone told him that the snow must be lying for miles around.  
  
_He said he’d be back by dark_.

 

* * *

  
  
  
Ni~ya, however, was a good many miles away and in difficulties. He tugged his long, patched coat around himself and kicked the flat tire furiously, chilling fingers of wind blowing his coaly hair into his eyes. He swore to himself as he saw the tilt of the car, one wheel in the ditch.  
  
“Dammit!” What an end to the worst day of his business career. Everything had gone disastrously, he was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy according to his accountant (not that he’d trust Ruka as far as he could throw him, but you couldn’t ignore him, even so), and the last straw: no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find the only gift that his apprentice had ever asked for, one white rose in winter. Ni~ya couldn’t work out why Sakito had plumped for such a strange item when he could have had anything for the asking, unless he recognised the inherent similarities between a rare flower and his own beautiful self.  
  
Growling once more at the wrecked car, Ni~ya trudged off in the direction that looked the least snowy. After some while he realised that this was very likely a mistake: he had been walking at least an hour and there was no hint of another human being, not even a sign post. Every minute or so he tried his phone, willing it to pick up a signal. Nothing, not even the hiss of static. There were trees overhead now, leafless branches interlocking above him, tighter and tighter until he felt that he was in a long tunnel. He was sure it was darker here than it had any right to be, and he shivered with more than cold. Who knew what might be at the end? _If there is an end_ , he added optimistically.  
  
He rounded a curve in the lane.  
Ahead, behind high gates so intricate and delicate they looked like spun sugar, lay a house, tucked between arching, skeletal trees in a wide expanse of frozen garden. It looked overgrown to Ni~ya’s inexperienced eyes, but seemed like exactly the type of thing that Sakito would love to get his green fingers into. Sinkingly, he assumed it was deserted, until he noticed a faint glimmer of light in an upstairs window.  
  
The gates swung open with surprising ease under his touch. Ni~ya crunched up the snow-covered avenue and looked at the knocker. It appeared to be some kind of cat, and stared disconcertingly at him with its jewelled eyes. Nothing for it, however. He lifted his hand, but as he touched the cold metal the door slid open quietly. Ni~ya looked it up and down, shrugged, and stepped inside gratefully, into the sudden hush after the noise of the storm. Behind him the door carefully closed itself, but being as pragmatic and incredulous a person as ever scoffed at the idea of a ghost, Ni~ya ignored it and wandered into the hall.  
  
The house seemed larger inside than it had from the road, Ni~ya mused. The hallway stretched out before him in an excess of deep carpets and crystal lights, leading to a wide stairway.  
“Hello?” he tried, voice sounding thin in the high space. Nothing answered, but another door swung open slowly to his left. Raising his eyebrows, Ni~ya stepped into the room, a snug parlour with an applewood fire, richly dyed rugs on the floor and, most importantly, a plate of sandwiches. The kind of person who never sniffs at a free meal, Ni~ya sat down in an amazingly comfortable chintz armchair and proceeded to swallow the lot. He looked around the room inquisitively. Whoever lived here must be either stupendously rich or come from a family who hadn’t redecorated for about two centuries.  
  
_Well, try again_ , he thought to himself, chewing the last mouthful. He dug around in his pocket until he found his phone, and flipped it open. He nearly choked in amazement. Full signal! Hurriedly he flipped through his numbers until he found a taxi service that was reasonably local, and called them, praying for an answer. He was soon talking to the old man on the other end of the line with relief (and hoping that they took credit cards). He tried to describe the house, and eventually got back an earful about monsters and some local superstition, and a vague half-promise that someone would be along to pick him up.  
  
He gazed around again, fingers and toes tingling as they thawed out in the heat of the fire. It was tempting to stay here for a while. But even Ni~ya’s chilly brain was picking up on the inherent strangeness and the absence of his host. He was unsure how much time had passed since he entered the room. When he looked at his watch it had stopped.  
  
_O-kay. Time to go_.  
He heaved himself to his feet, left the enticing room and re-entered the palatial hall. He had to spin around before he located the entrance; there suddenly seemed to be a myriad of wooden doors stemming from the hallway, all similarly dark, old, and gaunt. It opened obligingly for him nevertheless, and he stepped back out into the dark, a gust of wind buffeting his face roughly. He walked back down the path, noting the brittle plant stalks that must bloom with beauty in the summer, wreathed in snow.  
  
Ni~ya was almost at the gates when a patch of ice made him stumble, sending him sideways into a bush and a frosting of snow tumbling to the ground. And there, gleaming with icy facets, was a single white rose, shimmering miraculously amid the dead thorns. Ni~ya stared at it, mouth open. What were the odds?  
  
He bit his lip and stretched out his hand. He hesitated, then thought of that beautiful face; how could he possibly deny his apprentice anything? He closed his eyes and stole the frosted white flower, the frozen stem snapping with a sound like glass.  
  
A flash behind his closed lids and he opened his eyes in panic. The whole house was abruptly blazing with light, and into it his host stepped, seeming to coalesce out of the skittering leaves.  
  
The Beast stepped forward, hands on his hips. He shook his head disapprovingly, the frozen tips of his mane tinkling like tiny bells.  
“What are you doing, Thief?”  
  
“I - I’m not a thief!” protested Ni~ya, gaping, unable to form anything more coherent..  
  
The Beast looked pointedly at the rose, baring his white teeth in a snarl. Ni~ya took a hasty step back.  
“Please! It’s for my apprentice. All he’s ever asked me for in the world is one white rose… I can’t disappoint him.”  
  
“What’s your trade?” asked the Beast suspiciously, moving forward.  
  
“Erm… flower arranging?”  
  
The Beast rumbled deep in his throat. Ni~ya wondered if it was a laugh; he fumbled vainly in his wallet for a coin, anything.  
The Beast leaned forward and rudely hooked out a small photo of Sakito with one long-nailed hand. As he looked at it his expression softened. His strange eyes widened, surprise, even wonder dawning on his features; the camera had captured the apprentice’s sweetness of expression and beautiful face perfectly. The Beast stroked the paper cheek absently, then handed the picture back, taking care not to scratch it.  
  
“Take the flower. But bring your apprentice to dinner.”  
  
What else could he do?  


 

* * *

  
  
  
I shiver as the dark-tinted door of the old-fashioned Rolls opens by itself. I turn around and look wildly at Ni~ya.  
  
“It’s ok, Sakito. Get in.” I look at him doubtfully but slide into the back of the car, leather seats soft as butter. He climbs in after me. The door shuts gently and it pulls away, snow whirling past the windows. I can’t see anything through the glass separating us from the front of the car. Nothing. No driver.  
I grab Ni~ya’s arm, my heart hammering.  
“Ni~ya -”  
  
“I know.” His voice is level, but I know my master. He’s keeping something from me because he doesn’t want me to know that he doesn’t understand it either. I don’t know exactly what happened to him that night; all I got was a gabbled story about burst tyres and huge houses. So now we’re having a formal dinner with this mysterious rescuer and I don’t even know his name, just some ridiculous folk tale about a creature that is hardly human.  
  
Ni~ya reaches up and adjusts the flower he insisted on me wearing in my hair. It’s certainly a beautiful rose; it shimmers faintly and seems to generate its own light, and it doesn’t wilt at all. I continue to cling to him as the sumptuous vehicle whisks us through the evening, wondering why this stranger is so insistent upon seeing _me_ , sensing the troubling insinuation of unspoken bargains.  
  
After what seems an age, Ni~ya hands me out of the car and into this enormous darkened hall, which is strange because from the outside this place looks like a country cottage. My skin prickles. The folk tale doesn’t seem so unbelievable now.  
  
“What do we do now?” I whisper, unwilling to relinquish Ni~ya’s hand. He turns away from me, and the hall suddenly springs into brightness, dazzling me as the crystal lamps suffuse with gold, sparks of light like flame winking off their sharp facets.  
And I stare open-mouthed at the figure padding its way softly down the staircase.  
  
“Be as polite as you can be”, says Ni~ya softly in my ear, dropping my hand and pushing me forward slightly. I try to speak, but I can’t. What would I say? Those strange eyes hold my gaze, hypnotic in their intensity as the creature stops inches away from me. I hold my breath, try to stop my body shaking as they pierce me.  
After a few moments, which seem like years, it releases me by turning and moving silently through a door that opens of its own volition. Ni~ya follows, talking to it with every appearance of polite comprehension. All I hear in return is low growling. When I lag behind he excuses himself and slows his steps until he’s walking beside me.  
  
“Sakito?”  
  
“Can you understand it?” I ask in an incredulous whisper.  
  
“Of course. Is something wrong, Sakito?” Yes, something is most definitely wrong.  
  
“Wh -” I clear my throat and try again. “What is it?”  
  
He gives me a concerned look.  
“What do you mean? That’s him, the one who gave you the rose.”  
  
I shut my eyes. The odd sense of space in here is making me giddy, and Ni~ya is acting none too normal either. I decide to state the obvious.  
  
“It’s a cat.”  
  
Ni~ya looks at me as though I’m high and laughs as if I’m making a joke.  
“Try opening your eyes. He’s a man!”  
  
“He isn’t”. I look at the shape prowling on all fours ahead of me.  
  
“Look! He’s almost your height!”  
  
“A lion then”, I counter, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “He’s still a cat.”  
Ni~ya presses his cool hand against my forehead and takes my arm.  
  
“I don’t think you’re well. You feel hot.”  
  
I’m about to assert the evidence of my own eyes at the top of my voice when the huge cat looks round and meets my stare, and once again I’m sliced by its gaze, the breath catching in my throat. Those eyes are so angry, so fine and beautiful, and indescribably sad.  
What is this thing?!  
  
In a daze I follow it into a dining room that sweeps up to a high-vaulted ceiling, a rococo splendour that makes me gasp even in the grip of this strange, fearful thrall.  
Another confusion of low rumbles from the creature’s mouth ensues. Ni~ya nods and gestures me to a seat near the end of the vast rosewood table, still looking at me strangely. I drop into the chair and clasp my hands together to stop their trembling; I’m taking deep steadying breaths and feeling a little better when the cat springs effortlessly onto the ornate chair at the head of the table, close to me, oh so frighteningly close. I almost shove my chair back involuntarily, but as the muscles in my arms twitch the creature slams one huge tawny paw onto the table, a bare inch from my hand. I freeze. As if to make its point, the cat’s immense claws unsheathe like daggers and drag their way through varnish and wood with a terrible sound. It shakes its mane, eyes not leaving mine, and lowers its paw.  
  
I sit numbly as Ni~ya serves me with exquisitely cooked dishes and makes apparently easy conversation with a creature whose sounds I can make neither head nor tail of. This is not just a big cat, even I can see that; but what is it?! Is there really a man sitting there? Am I losing my mind? No. There’s something at work on this place, some odd magic, and I can’t cope with it!  
  
The cat looks over at me, pausing in its dialogue with Ni~ya, and very slowly and deliberately yawns. The sight of that red, cavernous mouth and the massive, wicked, ice-white canines sends a strange _frisson_ of excitement through me, the mingled fear and adrenaline of prey. I sense the intolerable difference between myself and this predator and at the same time a shudder of desire that I can’t place, and my heart starts to skitter.  
  
The cat doesn’t eat. It just rumbles at Ni~ya and watches me. Its eyes reflect the light most oddly: sometimes when I catch its glance it seems to be sizing me up to see what kind of dinner I’d make, and then a second later it gazes at me with an expression almost like yearning. I shift uncomfortably, caught between these two moods. On one hand I feel like a naïve uneducated child, not knowing which glass or fork to use out of the vast array of crystal and silver in front of me. On the other I feel distressingly underdressed, in this shocking outfit that Ni~ya let the giggling dressmaker choose for me: with my throat, my bare arms and my flat stomach on display I feel like a cut of meat, terrifying and exciting me simultaneously.  
  
The meal finishes with tiny, scalding cups of bitter black chocolate that I can’t abide. I sip it anyway because I can’t bear the thought of how that creature might look at me if I refused anything it offered. I’m stirring it with the absurd little silver spoon and trying to look as though I’m enjoying it when the cat leaps silently onto the floor. I jerk back in my chair, spilling chocolate into my saucer. It stares at me with the supercilious expression of all cats and rumbles something.  
  
“I can’t understand you”, I whisper, feeling both foolish and petrified, as though I’m offending it by not being able to speak with it.  
  
“Like he said, he wants me to have a quick talk with him in private”, says Ni~ya obliviously. “Will you be alright alone?”  
  
“I’ll be fine”. Ni~ya, you bastard, don’t leave me on my own! Who knows what else is lurking in this place? Of all the blind, bull-headed idiots, my master is the worst. Who else would spend the evening talking to a giant cat and not even notice the fact?! A cat that’s looking at me as though it knows exactly what I’m thinking and finds it vaguely amusing… that’s looking at me as if I were some rare delicacy, possibly an after-dinner snack.  
  
They disappear through the imposing double doors. I sit at the enormous table, my heart thumping, gripping the linen cloth beneath the dishes like a lifebelt. I realise I’ve been holding my breath desperately, like a drowning man, and exhale, forcing myself to breathe deeply, slowly, as the too-dark shadows rear up around the tableau of fireside and table.  
  
I don’t know how much time passes; my watch has stopped and there’s no clock in here; even the fire isn’t burning any lower, no way to tell how long I’ve been sitting here afraid. Then Ni~ya returns. He looks at me enigmatically and bites his lip.  
  
“He wants to talk to you by yourself.”  
  
“How can I talk to it when I can’t understand anything it says?” I snap, trying anger to cover the skip of my heartbeat at the thought of being alone with it. Ni~ya raises his black eyebrows.  
  
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you tonight, I really don’t. But he says you’ll understand him this time.” He stretches out his hand, inviting me to stand. I take it after a moment’s hesitation, only because the thought of disobeying that creature is far worse than disobeying my master. He leads me out of the room and up the sweeping staircase to the first floor, lamps glowing into life as we pass them disconcertingly. I point them out to Ni~ya, who refuses to slow his footsteps.  
  
“Don’t you see anything wrong with this picture?” I hiss at him. He shrugs the infuriating shrug  
of a man who can’t see past the end of his nose for logic, and there’s nothing I can do. I owe him my loyalty, after all.  
He stops me, after leading me through a labyrinth of corridors, outside a small, ornate door. The lamp in this section of carpeted hallway stays obstinately unlit and I look around nervously. Ni~ya puts a comforting arm around my shoulders, although he looks almost as concerned as I feel.  
  
“I’ll see you soon.” I nod shortly. “And Sakito… remember that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He strokes my face briefly and opens the door for me.  
  
“What?!” I exclaim as I register his words, but he’s gone, hurrying back down the passage. I hover in the doorway. All I can see of the room beyond is part of a wall and a small golden table lamp. I start when a voice suddenly addresses me from the darkness.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
Clenching my fists until my nails cut into my palms, I enter.  
  
“Will you sit?”  
  
There’s a small, exquisitely upholstered wing-back chair to my left, warm light pooling around it. I sit down immediately, partly to stop my legs shaking but partly because I could never think of disobeying that voice. I can’t see the speaker at all; he’s seated opposite me, shrouded in complete blackness. It could be anyone there. I hear him sniff delicately.  
  
“You’re bleeding.” I look down at my palm, at the smear of deep red. He sighs. And then there’s silence until I can’t stand it.  
  
“Why can’t Ni~ya see… what you are?” My voice has a tremor in it, and I find myself blushing.  
  
“And what _am_ I?” he asks curiously.  
  
“I…I don’t know”, I admit in a small voice. This elicits a low purr of laughter from the unseen speaker, and in that instant I know it’s him.  
  
“Hrmm. You have something that your master… doesn’t. Proverbially speaking.”  
  
“What is it?” I ask, feeling bold. To my surprise there’s something about his manner that invites questions. Against my expectations his voice is low and soft, a little rusty with disuse, but has none of the lion’s snarl I was expecting.  
I feel his stare on me although I can’t see it, a fine quiver against my skin running from my face, over my body, to the tips of my fingers. Then I blush even more deeply as I realise what he means, and squirm embarrassedly in my seat.  
  
“Well. Never mind”, he says. Another rumble of laughter. “That’s the trouble with folklore, of course.”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
I sense movement in the darkness as if he’s waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll explain another time.”  
  
I tuck this comment into the back of my mind where it sits and niggles at me, but I ignore it, wanting to hear him speak again.  
“How can I understand you now?”  
  
“So long as you can’t see me, I’m human to you. Mostly human. When I’m in darkness I can talk to you. I’ve missed talking”, he says reflectively, as though surprised at the realisation. His tone has none of the cat’s swaggering confidence. He sounds young, and quiet, but something in his voice compels me and at the same time makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.  
  
“Sir… why did you ask to see me?”  
  
“Call me Beast.”  
  
“…Beast?”  
  
“Everyone else does”. He sighs, and I feel him fix me with his eyes again. “You know about your master’s troubles, yes? I want to help him. And I can; I can make the two of you richer than you’ve ever dreamed. I think he’ll agree, but he’ll need to spend the winter in the city.” His voice becomes yearning, wistful, although he hides it well. “So… I thought you might stay here.” He pauses. “What do you think?”  
  
As I hear the words the room seems to contract around me, trapping me neatly in the circle of lamplight. I realise how precisely the two of them have caught me and feel myself blanch. Ni~ya! I’d kill him if I didn’t owe him so much. ‘Don’t have to do anything you don’t want to’! How could he do this to me?!  
  
“And if I said no…?” I ask breathlessly. I hear a rustle of cloth; I think he’s leaning forward.  
  
“Oh well. If you say no… he’ll pay for the flower he stole from me.” I sense him gazing at the delicate rose in my hair, caressing me with his stare. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it. But it’s dim beauty compared to you.”  
  
I leap to my feet, furious, although his voice has turned to sharp silk, wrapping itself around me, trying to bind me.  
“How many other poor idiots like him have you done this to?!” I yell cuttingly and foolishly. “How many bargains have you made over a flower?!”  
  
This time his voice has teeth in it.  
“There were no bargains! People who steal from me… do not leave this place. Your master may count himself lucky I gave him a chance. If I hadn’t seen your face…”  
  
I gasp. Then I pull myself up to my full height and glare icily at the darkness where I think he’s sitting. What choice do I have?  
“Then… I accept your kind offer”, I manage through gritted teeth. “So long as you keep your promise.”  
  
“Consider it begun already. Look out of the window.” I turn and the heavy drapes pull themselves back enough for me to see Ni~ya outside, getting into the big car. I whirl back around.  
  
“The two of you decided without even asking me?!”  
  
A movement that insinuates a shrug.  
“No. He was waiting for you to agree. Besides, what else would you have done? I knew you wouldn’t refuse him.” He tries to sound comforting. “He’ll come for you before the end of winter.”  
  
A sob of betrayal and fear threatens to well up inside me. Before he can see me cry I turn and stumble out of the room, almost blinded by horror and the insidious power of his presence. The last thing I hear before my head hits the carpet and the darkness surrounding him reaches out to grab me is his soft voice.  
  
“Thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast Hitsugi is proactive. Sakito is a drama queen, in proper fairy tale fashion.

I awaken as huge velvet curtains pull themselves back, letting in blinding winter sunlight. For a moment I have no idea where I am; then last night hits me. I look around me, at the expanse of white sheets and rich silk hangings of the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. How did I get here? The last thing I remember…  
I flush scarlet, then notice my hand, neatly bandaged in gauze. So he brought me here… I begin to shake at the thought of him touching me, from fear or… or something else.  
  
What do I do now? From the light it seems like early morning. I get out of bed, feeling weak and strange. As I wander around the large room a dark wardrobe swings open, making my heart leap with fright. I peer inside reluctantly: it’s full of clothes that fit me exactly, but all peculiar and old. But I can’t spend all day in this revealing outfit, so I grab some of the more innocuous looking items and slam the door firmly, half expecting it to fight back. Its keyhole looks like an eye.  
  
When I get back to the safety of the bed I find that I’ve acquired a pair of dusty velvet trousers and some kind of fitted shirt with antique lace around the collar. I put them on, not without some misgivings about who they previously belonged to and what happened to said owner.  
  
It’s anyone’s guess what’s supposed to happen now. I stretch stiffly and tentatively open the bedroom door. As soon as I step into the corridor a lamp ignites further along. I move towards it and the next one lights up, throwing a soft glow on the rich carpets and warm wood panelling. I follow the pattern of lights with a shiver of apprehension, but they lead me back to the wide main staircase and into that huge dining room. The cold sun is streaming through the arched windows here, and the table is miraculously laid with breakfast.  
  
I decide it would be a good idea to eat, and sink into the same chair as last night. I’m helping myself to hot eggs when I see the deep scar in the woodwork, a souvenir of the cat’s strength. Suddenly I’m no longer hungry. I feel numb. I’ve been abandoned by my master in this house full of oddities, locked away with a, a _beast_ that speaks soft words and looks at me with a famished, covetous eye.  
  
I put my head in my hands and abandon myself to furious tears as the reality of it hits me, and so I don’t see him enter. I look up with red eyes and see a softly padding shape through the damp blur of my vision. I wipe my eyes with the back of my bandaged hand. The cat rounds the head of the table, heading in my direction. It rumbles gently at me and approaches my chair, but I jump up, trying desperately not to meet its eyes.  
  
“I said I’d stay, didn’t I?!” I yell at it. “Now leave me alone!” It stops. I back around the table and flee from the room. As I go I feel its stare on my back.  
  
I spend the rest of the day in my bedroom, sheets clasped to my chest, sobbing under the covers like a petulant child, and am only interrupted by the fiery red sunset washing over my skin, staining it bloody until the velvet curtains slide closed and bring darkness so deep that I can’t see my hand when I wave it in front of my face. For a while I wait with baited breath and a choking lump of fear in my throat, because I know I was offensive this morning and I expect at any moment to hear the creak of the oak door. But the door stays shut and neither the cat or… whatever I was talking to last night come to me. I finally fall into a dazed sleep.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When I wake up I realise I didn’t dream last night. This is very unusual for me, but I feel refreshed in a way I can’t make out. I’m in the middle of dressing when there’s a mechanical squeaking from behind a wooden hatch in one wall. I watch it in trepidation until it springs open to reveal a tray set with breakfast and one brilliant orchid in a tiny vase. I grab the tray, starving after the previous day, and the hatch swings closed. I wonder as I eat just who is making the food around here. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of another creature in the house, and it’s surely too much to expect that he does it himself. I shrug and help myself to sausages; some of Ni~ya’s awful pragmatism must have infected me.  
  
Later on I venture out of my room and wander the house, which is a vast confusion of hidden rooms and mysterious stairwells. The magical lamps lead me into such strange places that I’m not sure that this isn’t actually a dream. One room is a library, piled to the distant ceiling with books whose names I can’t read, with a carpet woven into a pattern like a summer sky, so that if you looked down quickly you’d think you were standing in mid-air. Another is so loud with the sound of birds that I can barely think, until I look out of the window and see the trailing plants growing around the stonework, filled every inch by nests and birds in their hundreds. When they see me they stop, blissful peace.  
  
Best of all, towards the back of the house along one sunny wall I find an enormous glasshouse, blooming with strange, beautiful flowers that shouldn’t be able to exist here at all, let alone in mid-winter. I sit amidst them, inhaling their fragrance; I haven’t felt so calm since Ni~ya came back to our house that night, seems like an age ago now. I spend some hours with my sleeves rolled up, happily weeding, until the sun starts to lower in the sky. Then I make my way back to my room, guided by the lights.  
  
I look in the ornate mirror next to the wardrobe (which I still don’t trust), and see myself covered in smudges of dirt. I shake some soil out of one sleeve absently, and a door to the side of my bed opens. It’s a bathroom, small and perfect. As I watch, water shoots out from the silver taps and begins to fill the round sunken tub. I jump, then wonder when I’m going to stop being surprised by things in this house doing what they please.  
  
When the air in the room is steamy and fragrant with bubbles I strip and lower myself into the hot water. I bathe luxuriously, the swirling water embracing me gently, until my fingers are wrinkling at the tips, then dry myself languidly with thick towels, yawning comfortably. I dress in silk that slips wickedly against my skin, there don’t seem to be any sensible clothes here at all, then brush my hair until it’s dry and gleaming like a sheet of satin. My face glows softly in the mirror. I hope I’m not getting vain.  
  
A sound off to my left makes me spin round, and I cry out sharply in surprise. The cat saunters through the door, muscles moving sinuously under its sleek pelt. It appears to grin at me, insofar as feline jaws are made for grinning, and springs lightly up onto my bed, making itself comfortable on the soft quilts.  
  
“Can I help you?” I say, my unsteady voice betraying my shock. I start to back away, but this time a low growl stops me, rising as I take another slow step back. I come to a halt and, though I’m desperately trying not to, I find my eyes raising to meet its gaze, and in that instant I’m trapped again, such an appalling ecstasy of helplessness! I find myself walking forward despite myself; I reach the edge of the bed and another growl weakens my knees, forcing me to sit, my hands spread on the covers to balance myself. The cat shakes its mane and yawns its pointed yawn, and the sheer scale of it hits me as I sit trembling, less than a foot away from it.  
  
The contrast between the sweet, innocent, idle day I’ve spent and my position now, caught by this terrible, beautiful creature, my pulse blurring with panic and creeping exhilaration, is too much for me. My eyes close, mercifully hiding that magnetic stare, but now I can hear a low, continuous thunder beneath my own rapid, terrified breathing: the sound of its purr, as soft and compelling as the Beast’s human voice.  
  
Then a shift of movement over the mattress. I flinch and my heart misses a beat; I feel something cold and hard like bone touch my cheek, then a hint of sharp edge as the cat’s claw drags agonizingly slowly down my face, not breaking my skin but making every single nerve scream at me to run. The sensation moves to my throat, and I feel the breathless fear of every small animal trapped under a marauder’s talons. I hear myself whimper quietly. Then the feeling’s gone.  
  
I open my eyes and the cat is licking its huge paw lazily, not looking at me, although I sense its attention is still firmly on me. I breathe for what feels like the first time in minutes, my hand going to my throat. What was that for?! Was it a threat or a caress? Or both?  
  
As I sit there, trying to work out whether it had some meaning or if it was a cat’s reflex cruelty to its imminent dinner, I hear the mechanical squeak of the hatch, and the shutters swing open. What a time to think about eating!  
  
“I’m not hungry”, I mumble. The cat raises its magnificent head and stares at me until I’m squirming uncomfortably under its gaze. Nothing for it but to go over and pick up the tray. It’s only slices of prettily arranged fruit, but I still have unstoppable thoughts about being fattened up.  
  
“I’m really… I can’t eat now.” Still that piercing stare. I pick up a piece of pineapple and chew it miserably. The satisfied purr begins again; the cat sits and watches me eat intently. When I finally finish it jumps down from the bed and pads over to the door. I think with relief that it’s about to leave, but it looks round at me insistently and I have no choice but to follow it, back to the room where we first spoke, the dark room with the golden lamp. The air whispers voluptuously over my silk clothes, my throat still burning from that touch.  
  
Nervously I stand before the little armchair. The cat trots into the dark corner of the room, and a second later I hear the Beast speak.  
“Please, sit down”.  
  
A little inexplicable shiver ripples over me at the sound of his voice, and I find myself sinking into the chair. I grab a cushion and hug it to myself awkwardly. All I can see of him is the occasional gleam of reflected light on his eyes. I sit there, waiting in trepidation for him to berate me for my rudeness yesterday, and at the same time wanting to hear his voice again.  
  
“I want to apologise”.  
  
“For what?” I ask, my train of thought derailed by the unexpected words.  
  
“For what I did to you just now.” He sounds genuinely contrite. It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about, but when I do my hand flies to my neck as I realise it was him who touched me so dangerously and so intimately. It’s because I still persist in thinking of him and the cat as separate beings. But they’re not. I feel myself blush.  
  
“I’m sorry. The cat shape is… rather uninhibited. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Now his voice is faintly embarrassed, as though he’s been caught feeling something he’d rather keep hidden. I look down at my hands; they’re unsteady.  
  
“I would never hurt you”, he tells me with a mixture of urgency and wistfulness that causes a gentle pang in my chest. “I just wanted to talk to you. But it’s hard to explain when you can’t understand me.” He sighs.  
  
I decide to say what’s on my mind, as he seems to like it in this shape, whatever it is.  
“Then… why don’t you just talk to someone like Ni~ya who can see you all the time?”  
  
He seems to snap out of his melancholy, and laughs that soft rumbling laugh.  
“Because even humans like him without two sparks of imagination to rub together won’t stay in a place where inanimate objects do as they please.”  
  
 _So you keep me here like a pet_ , I think resentfully; but his laugh makes me tingle.  
  
“And besides, if it was your master in your place we’d bore each other silly in days. But… I don’t bore _you_ , do I?”  
  
I shake my head, eyes wide. Terrified yes. Bored? How can I be bored?  
“Please don’t be afraid of me”, he whispers earnestly. “You can have anything you want. I want you to be happy.”  
  
I consider asking him to let me go home, but give it up quickly. That would be a pointless request, if ever there was one.  
“Then please don’t come into my room unannounced when you’re… the cat. It scares me.”  
  
Another sigh. “But I never am a cat until you look at me. Very well. I’ll keep away from you… if it’s what you want.” He sounds disappointed, and his lovely, treacherous voice makes me want to retract my request. I clench my hands together and try to stay resolute as he speaks again .  
“But will you come to this room every night when the sun goes down?”  
  
“I will”, I say carefully, “if you let me see my master.” I have to know if I’m making this sacrifice for a good reason, after all, and I can’t contact Ni~ya by myself. There’s no telephone anywhere in the house that I can see, and I’ve looked.  
  
“If you want to, yes. Come with me.” I hear a rustle of clothing as he stands, and a step forward. The cat moves into the light, eyeing me inscrutably. I follow it out of the room, lamps leaping into brightness around us, and along a maze of passages and stairways. We emerge in a miniature circular courtyard, open to the dark winter sky, stars high and cold above us, staining the stone silver. The cat disappears into the shadow of a pillar, and the Beast speaks again.  
  
“Go over to that bowl in the middle. Look inside.” I shoot a perplexed glance at the dark patch from which he speaks, but obey. The bowl is delicate and deep; it looks as though it’s full of water, but when I go to touch it I realise it’s glass. As I watch a picture comes through like a television image with bad static. Ni~ya is in a restaurant with his accountant. He’s grinning the irresistible grin of wealth, and I can’t help groaning at his execrable dress sense even as I’m marvelling at this new magic.  
“He looks like a pimp.”  
  
A purr of laughter from behind the pillar. “How disrespectful.” I clap my hand over my mouth; I didn’t mean to say that out loud.  
  
“There. Are you satisfied, Beauty?”  
  
“My name’s not Beauty”, I retort, my attention dragged away from Ni~ya.  
  
“And my name isn’t Beast, but it’s a good description”, he says wryly. “And out here, you’re so… Well. Anyway. You’ll come to me tomorrow?”  
  
I turn at the hopeful tone of his voice. Is he really that lonely?  
“Yes”, I whisper. I feel him gaze at me for a long moment.  
  
“Then goodnight.” The cat emerges from the shadows and bounds away. I stay for a few minutes, allowing my mind to calm down in the faint moonlight. When it becomes too cold I follow the lights back to my bed.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next night I go to him after it gets fully dark, not because he frightened me into it or because I want to fight with him, but because he asked me politely. Which makes it rather awkward, because I have no small talk and it turns out the Beast doesn’t either; I suppose he doesn’t get the chance to practice often. The next few evenings are characterised by short, stilted conversations separated by long periods of his eyes on me, gleaming silently out of the darkness. But now it seems we’ve both learnt to push ourselves out of habitual shyness. He asks me about my life with Ni~ya, little details, and because I love to hear his voice I answer. And tentatively I find out little facets of him, although none of the obvious things like what he looks like, how old he is, where he came from, why he’s here. It’s better between us now, because I never see the cat, never have to find myself ensnared in its tantalising gaze.  
  
Tonight when I arrive there’s dinner piled prettily on flowered porcelain on the table beside my chair, exquisitely arranged finger food that means I can eat elegantly instead of gobbling like a lout. I know he likes watching me eat, although he’ll never have anything himself, so I take a sip of strange, grainy, golden liqueur that tastes like honeysuckle and comes in a tiny glass shaped like a rosebud. Whenever I put it down it fills itself up again, very dangerous for me because I’m not used to drinking and I have no idea how strong it is. Still, it feels very pleasant, a warm glow in my stomach. He seems in a contemplative mood tonight, but I want him to talk. That’s why he’s keeping me here, isn’t it?! I recall the first conversation we ever had, and speak up.  
  
“Beast?”  
  
“Hmm?” I hear him shift slowly in his chair.  
  
“You remember when I asked you why Ni~ya sees you as human all the time?” A quiet rumble of assent. “And you said it was because I was a… you know…”  
  
I can hear him smile through the tone of his expressive voice.  
“I never said that, Beauty. It was you who surmised it.”  
  
I scowl slightly at this annoying epithet, but decide to let it go. I’ve seen myself reflected in the cat’s large eyes often enough to know that it’s true. I take another sip of liqueur.  
“Well, that’s what you meant, isn’t it? It’s because I’ve never -”  
  
“Yes”, he says swiftly, as if he doesn’t want to hear words like that from my lips.  
  
“And after that”, I continue, “you said ‘that’s the trouble with folklore’. What did you mean?”  
  
“Oh, is that all”. The direction of his voice changes; he must be leaning back, looking up at the ceiling. “You’ve heard superstitions, haven’t you. And fairytales.”  
  
“Some, of course.”  
  
“I’ve heard hundreds. And read hundreds. And had people tell me them quite often too, usually in an accusing voice.” He chuckles. “You start to notice themes after a while. Certain things have power. Axes; woodcutters; kisses of course.”  
  
“Yes, but -”  
  
He carries on, caught up in his speech now. “And there’s nothing quite so special in folklore as… as a person like you. The most coveted, the most powerful.”  
  
I consider this through a sweet, golden haze of alcohol. Am I supposed to feel privileged or something?  
“But what does that have to do with us?” I ask, leaning my head to one side. “This is reality.”  
  
“It is. But you’d be amazed how many complete strangers recite my own life at me when they find out what I am. To them, I’m a story, pure folklore. The fact that they’re right in the middle of it doesn’t strike them at all.” He sighs. “Idiots”, he says mildly.  
  
I frown with careful concentration. I feel awfully sleepy.  
“So… exactly what are you saying?”  
  
“Please stop making that face, Beauty, it’s distracting me. The point is that words have power. Real power. People believe words so easily. They believe my life is a story, and the things they believe come to affect me no matter how I fight it.” He’s leaning forward now, his voice closer than before. “They believe I’m some great, cruel animal under a disguise. And they believe that a young, pure maiden -”  
  
“Hey!” I interject with the unwise confidence of drink.  
  
“Maidens don’t have to be girls”, he reassures me patiently. “Anyway. A person like that can see what lies behind the disguise, that’s what they think. And so, when you look at me, you see what they think I really am. An animal.”  
  
I’m completely confused now.  
“You mean… people believe in fairytales, so I see you as a cat.”  
  
“But I’m not. I’m a beast, but I’m not a cat.”  
  
“You’re not a cat.”  
  
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Beauty?”  
  
I grin happily at the place where his voice is coming from.  
“I don’t even remember what the question was.”  
  
He sighs resignedly and then purrs out a chuckle.  
“For someone so exquisite you have some odd blind spots.”  
  
“I’m not a fool”, I protest a little too emphatically. “And you’re not usually so forward with your praise.”  
  
Another chuckle. “How can I help it when you smile in my direction like that? I love seeing you smile. You’re so beautiful it makes me quite giddy. It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re too drunk to remember what I’m saying.”  
  
“Carry on explaining”, I urge him, yawning and curling languorously up in my chair. His compliments are ridiculous but his voice is almost as tangible as a caress, pouring warmly over my skin.  
  
“I’m obviously enthralling you”, he says dryly. “Anyway, I’d almost finished. But pure people always have power in folklore. The power to turn a monster into a handsome prince, that’s a good one. Rescuing a frog, that kind of thing.”  
  
I sit up a little straighter, catching the thread again.  
“Is that why you want me here?”  
  
He snorts cynically. “Of course not. It’s all very foolish, expecting some inexperienced kid’s kiss to turn a monster into a man. Or expecting handsome princes to be hanging around ponds in disguise. I told you before, I just want someone to talk to, even if I do have to sit in the dark to do it.”  
  
“Mm.” I’m feeling a little dizzy now. It’s far too hot in here, but I want more of his voice.  
“Beast, talk to me some more.”  
  
“If you want to hear me speak, you’d better come up with some more questions.”  
  
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, hotter than ever. I take another drink of the yellow liquid in the hope that it will cool me. The glass slowly refills itself.  
  
“Or maybe you should go to bed”, he adds, his soft voice suddenly concerned. “I think you’ve drunk too much.”  
  
“No!” I protest, though I feel a little nauseous. I don’t want to go back to my empty room yet; it’s getting late and the shadows seem to be encroaching oddly around my chair, just like they did on my first night here. I think of something.  
“Tell me how everything works by itself here.”  
  
There’s silence from the dark corner, but I continue.  
“Doors open on their own, the lights know exactly where I should be going. Drink serves itself! Why does it?”  
  
“I really think you should go to sleep”, he says quietly. I sense reluctance, and foolishly decide to push it.  
  
“I want to know! Things in this house seem to look at me. My wardrobe watches me”, I state, realising how stupid I sound. He doesn’t laugh.  
  
“It’s not something you need to know about. It wouldn’t entertain you.”  
  
“Tell me!” I growl, my hand going to my head. I feel so dizzy and sick. What was in that drink?!  
  
“Once more. I don’t propose to tell you.” There’s a hint of a snarl behind his words that would normally have me trembling from head to toe, but I feel too awful to notice.  
  
“Tell me”, I say boldly, “or I’ll not come to you again.”  
  
“In which case”, he says darkly, “I will come to _you_.”  
  
I know it’s inadvisable to deliberately antagonise even a normal cat, but I’m feeling so dreadful and he’s the only one here to blame.  
“I want to know.”  
  
A silence. Then:  
  
“Fine.” It’s a real growl, not like my pathetic attempt. His voice turns cold and flinty.  
“Listen carefully. Nothing in this house can move on its own. Objects don’t have minds, you know that. But there are things in this house that you can’t see. I can’t see them, but I know they’re here, and I know what they are. I wish they weren’t here, but they can’t go and I can’t send them away. And those are the things that serve me, that serve you now.”  
  
“What are they?” I demand, my temples throbbing. The lamp seems to be flickering, although it could be my burning eyes.  
  
“You remember that first night, don’t you. You asked me how many people I’ve let bargain for their lives.”  
  
“And you said none”, I whisper.  
  
“Yes. I said that people who steal from me don’t leave. And they don’t… They’re all around us; they’re tied to the house. They can’t do anything but serve, like machines.”  
  
“Do you mean ghosts?” I feel a creeping horror run up my arms, suddenly sticky with cold.  
  
“Not precisely. But they are dead.”  
  
“And you killed them”. It’s not a question. And still they can’t escape him. What hope do I have?  
  
“Yes, all of them”, he hisses, as though I’m dragging the words from him painfully. “Even if I don’t want to, I can’t help it. The stories at work again.” His voice is venomous but unsteady, shaking. “I’m the Beast. I’m a horror, a bleak fear in the night. That’s what they believe, and when they’re standing right in front of me with the things they’ve stolen in their pockets, knowing they’re guilty, believing in what the Beast does to thieves… that’s what I become, and there’s _nothing I can do_.”  
  
My vision’s blurring as I listen. My brain is trying to get an urgent message through to my muscles, and it’s agony.  
“Ni~ya…”, I whisper, half a question and half a plea.  
  
“Your master lived because he has no imagination, none at all. He knew the tales, but he couldn’t believe them, his mind doesn’t work like that. Even so, I might have…” His pained voice sinks to a murmur. “But then I saw your picture and I could think straight again, and I knew I had to have you here! So I let him go. But the others… I don’t even know how many… they’re dead.”  
  
Just as I think my head will explode from these terrible admissions and the pain behind my eyes, the lamp shatters, glass tearing thinly into my arm. But I don’t notice the sting because it’s suddenly pitch dark, only the dim outline of the door is visible and my heart contracts with panic as the Beast speaks again, closer than he’s ever been.  
  
“I won’t hurt you, you have to believe me. But -”  
  
I spring to my feet, my body finally taking over before he can come any nearer. I stumble almost immediately and yell out in the terrible fear that he’ll touch me.  
“Stay away!”  
  
I run for the door, almost falling as I make it into the corridor. None of the lamps are lit this time, and I’m almost out of my mind with dread of the invisible lingering victims around me. I flee through the hallways and down the wide staircase, shadows rising up around me, and only avoid falling down it by clinging desperately to the banister. Gasping I race across the wide hall and tug at the enormous door handle. The door swings open abruptly with a blast of snow and cruel wind, but I run out into the snowy grounds, leaving the path and scrambling over the bone-white lawn, sobbing with panic; I run until my breath feels like it’s tearing my chest open, and I can see a high boundary hedge in front of me, but I can’t help but look behind me, and the cat is speeding lightly across the snow towards me, bigger than I ever imagined. I push myself further but as the hedge looms up it begins to waver and gets darker until all I can see are shadows and I fall to my knees, not even feeling the freeze as I tumble towards the ground because everything is going black…


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakito finally gets used to life on the wild side, just in time for Ni~ya to turn up again. This does not go down well.

Black. Everything’s black. I would say I’ve woken up but… I feel like I’m floating. Maybe I’m still asleep. I move my arm a tiny fraction; why is it so difficult? It’s sending needles all the way up to my head. I can feel it rubbing against something. Not snow. It feels like sheets. Snow would be nice. I think I’m on fire.  
I open my eyes, at least I think I do. There’s a pressure on my lashes, and it’s still as dark as a cellar. I try to move again. It hurts. I open my mouth to try and gasp cold air. Feels like I’m floating in warm liquid.  
Something moves. I don’t think it’s me, but I can’t be sure. All I can do is let out a tiny moan, and that’s enough to make me shudder with dizziness. Now I’m all at odds. I don’t even know if I’m lying down.  
  
Sudden bliss. Something cold laid on my forehead, wonderful numbness in my head. Another moan, my arm twitches. Definitely sheets against my skin.  
  
“Beauty.” A low voice that’s still far too loud. I try to cover my ears but my hands won’t obey me that far. Is it Ni~ya? Nobody calls me that. Except…  
  
I try frantically to open my eyes. No good. The cloth on my forehead is turned over, even more cold, lovely. Thought is slowly coming back.  
  
“Are you awake? Please don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you”. I whimper lightly as memory starts to return. Last night… or was it? I don’t even know where I am. My ears…  
  
“…loud”, I manage. He speaks in a whisper.  
  
“You’ve got a fever. You’ll be fine soon. I won’t let anything happen to you.” That’s better. His voice is so soothing now. Like cool water.  
  
“I can’t see”, I whisper fretfully. A faint, stroking pressure over my eyelids. Is he touching me?  
  
“It’s ok. I had to blindfold you. If you can see me I won’t be able to look after you.”  
  
I feel him suddenly stroke my cheek lightly, the shock of skin on skin, and flinch away as I recall what I found out.  
  
“I’m sorry, Beauty”, he whispers, his voice like balm to my intolerably heated flesh.  
  
“I was nearly at the hedge…”  
  
“I’m so sorry. Even if I’d wanted to… the house won’t let you leave that way.”  
He takes my wrist gently and I don’t stop him. I have no choice, every move I make is so painful. Then comes the delightful coldness of the cloth as he slowly runs it down my arm, clearly aware that the friction on my skin is so heightened as to drive me crazy. I whimper again as the sensation hits me. I hate him. I hate him for putting me through this agony of sensitivity.  
  
“What can I do?” he asks softly. I want to tell him to go away, let me go, never make me feel this swiftly igniting pain again.  
  
“Talk to me”, I breathe somehow. “Say anything.” I want to cry from the throbbing in my head.  
  
He makes faint hushing noises, searching around for words, trying to calm my agitation.  
“I can’t think of anything to say.” A bitter chuckle. “I’m so sorry, I never meant this to happen.” He takes my hand, the faint pressure of his fingertips awakening a host of feeling; he squeezes my palm lightly and I feel dizzy with sensation. “You’re so beautiful”, he sighs. “I didn’t even know what it meant until I saw you…”  
  
“Keep talking”, I manage, quivering with unsteady pleasure as his cool hand travels slowly up my bare arm, every nerve alight at his touch. The wisp of sharp nails and I imagine claws drawing themselves over my skin. I fight to keep my breathing regular, silently begging for his soothing voice.  
  
“Even like this… you’re torn apart with fever, you know…” His hand strokes my burning temple and I gasp softly. “… You’re so lovely I feel guilty at being allowed to look at you, after I hurt you so badly.” I want to tell him I’ll forgive him everything, anything, if he just keeps talking. His fingertips trace the contours of my neck, just as the cat did, and I still feel the danger in his touch, but it mingles with a shocking delight at the contact and I manage to lean in towards it. Then it’s gone, and his voice is unsure as he speaks the name he gave me.  
“Beauty?”  
  
“Beast… talk to me”, I beg, in a flurry of muddled pain and desire and with a beseeching voice I never thought I’d use.  
  
“I’m here”, he whispers, and now his own voice is unsteady. A shift in the bed as he leans over me, and then I feel his lips on my forehead, cool and smooth, soft even with my fevered brain imagining fangs. “Everything will be all right”, he murmurs and kisses me again, the skin of my forehead tingling under his touch.  
  
“More.” My whisper is both pleading and demanding. His hand tangles in my hair, every strand screaming a new sensation; I feel him lean down and kiss my throat, and I almost pass out at the feeling of his mouth as he speaks between his caresses.  
  
“I know that once you’re well again… you’ll hate me”. I tilt my head at his touch and he kisses the angle between my jaw and my neck where the pulse throbs, and perilous, exhilarating ecstasy floods me at the danger. “I won’t be offended”, he continues, his voice making me shiver uncontrollably although my body continues to burn. “I know I deserve your contempt”.  
  
I shake my head blindly; I know I’d say anything now to prevent him from stopping. I feel his lips brush my cheekbones where my flush burns hottest, and sigh with excruciating pleasure.  
“Kiss me.” I manage to move my arm enough to take his hand and bring it to my face, although the movement makes me cry out softly with pain. He hesitates, then slowly lifts his other hand to cup my face, stroking my cheeks gently. His weight shifts over me, and the delicious pressure is overwhelming. The prickling of my skin tells me he’s moving closer, and I lean up as far as I can in the hope of meeting his mouth, no longer caring if he has as many fangs as a tiger so long as he doesn’t stop.  
  
But he does. I feel him hovering, millimetres from my face. Then his voice comes, his breath caressing my skin.  
“I can’t. I can’t do it. I’m sorry, Beauty. You’re too important to me… I want there to be a chance that you’ll forgive me.”  
He kisses me chastely on the corner of my mouth, and although I moan faintly in protest and turn my lips towards his, he breaks away. I feel him sit up. He strokes my dishevelled hair back into place and I feel a tear peek beneath the edge of my blindfold, such a mixture of frustration, desire and anger that I can barely stand it.  
  
“… please…” My body feels as though it’s in flames, and my head is spinning again.  
  
“Go to sleep, Beauty”, he whispers, taking care not to touch me again. “When you wake up, it will be easier”. And such is the power of his voice over me now that I can’t disobey. I slide into fitful sleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
I wake up again, if indeed I was awake before. The memory is fuzzy and intoxicated, as if I were drunk or dreaming. I lie still for a moment. I still feel very warm, but with less of the awful fevered heat, and very tired, my muscles aching as though I’ve been racing.  
  
I try opening my eyes tentatively, and find that I can. The dark canopy of the bed looms above me and weak sunlight shines on the brocade hangings, just as it has on any other morning. I lift my left hand to my eyes and still feel a ripple of discomfort; turning my head I notice that my arm is bandaged neatly. Yes. I vaguely remember that lamp shattering, the glass ripping into my skin like shrapnel, but I wasn’t in much of a position to worry about it at the time. There were much bigger things to be troubled with, like… The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I stop dwelling on that quickly.  
  
Then I try to move my legs, and find I can’t. I don’t remember anything happening to them! I raise my head, panicking slightly.  
The cat is lying on the end of my bed, one massive paw flopped absently over my feet. It has its eyes closed, but at my movement it half opens them lazily and looks at me. Apparently it’s not trying to snare me in its gaze at present, because all I feel is a small twitch of familiar apprehension and mild surprise.  
  
“What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice comes out hoarse and grumpy. I rub my eyes and try to sit up, but it’s impossible with its paw weighing me down.  
  
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask groggily. I recall that he told me to sleep, when I was so confused by tumbling pain and feverish desire that I flush dully at the memory, even though the images are disordered and hard to recollect. The cat looks at me unabashedly. Of course it can’t answer me, but it frightens me not to know how many days have passed. I’m so thirsty. There’s a glass on the dressing table.  
  
“Beast, will you please get off my feet”, I mutter. The cat yawns hugely and lifts its paw, allowing me to pull myself up to a sitting position using one of the bedposts. Pain flashes through my temples, bright and silver. I cling to the post until I can see clearly again, and reach out for the glass. It’s filling itself. My hand jerks back involuntarily, but I need to drink so badly.  
  
“Can you tell them not to do that?” I ask, my hand wavering. The cat, opening its startling eyes fully for the first time, slowly shakes its large head. I bite my lip but steel myself and take hold of the glass, expecting it to tingle under my fingers. It doesn’t. I drink the cool, clear water down, feeling it spreading its soothing tendrils through my aching head. It refills itself until I’ve slaked my thirst, and I return it to its place.  
Looking back at the cat I feel annoyance rising, proof that I’m still feverish and irritable. Is the Beast master of his own house or not? Why can’t he control the poor, sad spirits that he’s condemned to serve him?  
  
“I want to go to sleep”, I snap at it. It looks at me as if wondering why I’m bothering to tell it. I fume tiredly as it lies back and stretches out luxuriously, making itself comfortable, its tail flicking across my legs. The cat shape really can be infuriating when it’s not exerting its power on me.  
  
“Fine, stay there”, I grumble, my head beginning to pound again and a heated undulation of fever shooting along my limbs. It closes its eyes. I lie down, unable to sit upright any more, and flop over onto my side, not letting myself look at it. Still irritated, I eventually drop into sleep.  
I wake up once as twilight is settling in and the cat has gone, and I’m glad because my dreams were full of tumultuous, frightening images of cravings that I don’t want to acknowledge. Then my eyes close and I slip back into the troubled sleep of sickness.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next few days pass in a dreamy haze of sleeping and waking; whenever I open my eyes the cat is on the end of the bed, dozing. It wakes up and stares at me until I eat something, some fruit, some porridge, which I hate. That’s enough to exhaust me back into my odd dreams. If I wake in the night neither the cat nor the Beast are ever there, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but I can’t escape the vague fears that press me, of those invisible things silently doing their work.  
  
Eventually I feel well enough to get up. I feel my forehead and it’s cool. The cat watches me narrowly for a minute, as if checking that I won’t fall right back down, then leaves the room with its usual smooth grace.  
I open the wardrobe door and find that it’s somehow filled itself with snug winter clothes and scarves. Before I do anything else I bathe, sweet luxury. Then I dress slowly, still a little shaky, but it gets easier with each passing day.  
  
Now that I know what I know, it’s hard for me to wander through the house as I did previously. The sight of the lamps igniting in a wave is no longer a source of wonder, the doors that open as I walk through them no longer a happy convenience. So I spend the sunny mornings outside, tramping through the fresh snow, my breath hanging in the cold air, or in the perpetually warm hothouse with its unlikely flowers. I keep away from the boundary hedges, not wanting to risk what will happen if I approach them, but I find enough to entertain me in the frozen garden.  
  
The cat often lopes silently behind me as I carry straw to and fro, packing it around the delicate plants. This starts off as a terror, having that creeping creature behind me where I can’t see it; then it becomes a mild annoyance, and eventually something that I just accept. It isn’t bad company.  
  
Even though I know they’re the same creature, the cat’s personality seems very different from the Beast’s. Beast tells me it’s something about the shape of a cat’s mind, on one of the rare occasions that we have a conversation. There’s no room in there for agonising or moral thought. The cat is pure, selfish confidence. Unfortunately for me it loves to play and is viscerally physical, thinking nothing of rolling me over in the snow and pinning me down beneath its paws, in which I can always feel the hint of its sheathed claws. What a playmate for a convalescent! But in some ways I feel safer in its company, for the one grand reason that it can’t speak. That is, it can make its wishes known, usually by prodding me or buffeting me until I go where it wants. But it means I never have to hear terrifying admissions cloaked in a hypnotic voice from its mouth, never have to hear the now disturbing fact that the Beast finds me beautiful.  
  
And when I’ve tired myself out with working and being used as a lion’s metaphorical fluffy toy with bells on, I go back inside and eat something nourishing and boring, the cat at my heels. In the afternoons it always comes on to snow, heavily, and so I spend hours in that round library room with a wood fire, lying on the summer sky with my head pillowed on the cat’s soft flank as it lazily snoozes away the afternoon in the careless manner of all felines.  
  
These days, the cat always leaves me before dark, and I’m left to eat dinner on my own in my room, as the huge dining-room still makes me uneasy in its antique, towering splendour. At first I stay there the whole evening, trying to entertain myself. But after a while I feel an ambivalent yearning to go to that small, dark room, and so comes the reluctant admission that the Beast has done something to me, and that I want desperately to hear his soft voice from the blackness. It makes me uneasy, this desire, because in a vague, muddled way I do remember that night, his unseen touch goading me into pleasure, the shameful way I begged for him to speak. Of course I know I was ill, I wasn’t myself at all; but, trying as hard as I am to forget it, I’m so afraid that he’ll speak of it, force me to go through it in my mind again. But I still can’t help myself.  
  
So I go to him and sit down in my habitual seat, waiting for him to speak even as I hope that he doesn’t. But he seems as nervous of me now as I ever was of him, and has lapsed back into shyness. I’m trying so hard to forget everything he told me, or at least reconcile it in my mind with his gentle touch and the soft caress of his voice, but I can’t think of anything else to talk about.  
  
So he tells me stories. I asked him to read to me first, just to hear his voice, but he pointed out that he’d need light to see the pages, in which case I’d see him, and cats aren’t noted for their reading ability. So he tells me stories, all the folklore he was talking about, stories that I know, stories that seem familiar but end differently to the way _I'd_ heard them, and stories that couldn’t have been told for hundreds of years because I’ve never heard anything like them. I lie curled in my chair, half dreaming, his warm voice washing richly over me in a cacophony of princesses, monsters, witches, demons and animals. I know he watches me, his eyes sometimes seem to glow faintly, but in my half-hypnotised contentment it seems right, so long as he doesn’t break the spell by telling me how beautiful I am.  
  
And so it goes, until I can’t imagine a night without his presence, even if we never speak about the barriers he’s put between us. And I must admit that, without meaning to, when he tells me tells me tales of exquisite princesses, his voice quietly passionate as he describes their unstained beauty, I feel a stab of possessive jealousy. I don’t understand why, I just don’t want him to speak in that voice to anyone but me.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
I don’t know why it seems to take so long for the sun to go down tonight. I wait at the window for hours before the sky darkens into evening. Is it possible that I’m becoming so attached to the Beast’s company that it seems longer to wait before I can go to him? I can’t tell; there are no clocks of any description in here. With this troubling thought in mind I enter the familiar dimness of our meeting place. He seems in a despondent mood tonight, spending longer than usual watching me without talking.  
Eventually he speaks, slowly, reluctantly.  
  
“Winter’s coming to an end.”  
  
I don’t know quite what to make of this cryptic statement, so I say nothing, just look at his patch of darkness seriously. He sighs and elaborates for me.  
  
“Don’t you remember what I promised you when you first came here?”  
  
“I…”  
  
“I promised that your master would come for you before the end of winter. Tomorrow night, he’ll be here.”  
  
I stare, for a moment not quite taking in what he’s telling me. It can’t be possible.  
“How long have I been here?!” I ask.  
  
“More than three months”, he answers dolefully. I shake my head vehemently. That’s completely absurd!  
  
“How can you say it’s ending?!” I demand, my voice rising of its own accord. “It was a blizzard out there today!”  
  
“Didn’t you see the sky this evening, Beauty?” he says quietly, using the term of endearment I haven’t heard for a long time. “It felt like I had to wait an age before you came to me, it was so light.”  
  
I blush helplessly at this insinuation of regard. I don’t know what to say to him. The thought that I might actually be able to escape is at the top of my mind, the possibility of going back into the world, where invisible captives don’t operate the taps and giant cats don’t knock me about as if I were a mouse. But at the same time is an almost frantic desire to deny the truth of it. It can’t possibly have been three months! How can I leave?  
  
“Did you contact Ni~ya?” I ask, half accusingly.  
  
“No. How can you think I’d try and make you leave of my own free will?” Another shiver at this admission of affection. “He’s decided that now is the time. He misses you. He _will_ be coming in a day.” He sounds so terribly miserable that my heart contracts painfully.  
  
“Then… why don’t you just tell him I can’t come back?”  
  
“And break a promise?” He sounds shocked, and I’m surprised. “The cat might do that, if he could. I don’t think I can.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“Please, Beauty”, he protests softly. “You’re going, and that’s all there is to it.” His voice is so dejected that I feel like I’m teetering on the verge of tears, it has such power to influence me. But I also feel happiness burning like a core inside me at the sudden news. I realise that I miss normal things like clocks, using the phone, going out when I please. And I miss Ni~ya.  
  
He seems to understand these deep feelings. A rustle of clothing, I don’t know what he’s doing.  
  
“You can go if you want to”, he tells me wearily. I don’t want to seem rude and ungrateful by smiling in front of him, so I nod and leave the room quickly, before it breaks out irresistibly on my face.  
  
In my room I let myself grin, the unexpected news lightening my mood as I think of being able to see my friends, see my master, do anything I please.  
I think I must have drifted off for a little, because when I next open my eyes the room is dark, and all I can see is the rose he gave me on the dressing table, shimmering with its usual faint luminescence. I stand up, suddenly stifled by the warm air, and the window opens itself for me, the curtains drawing back slightly. I look out at the frozen grounds and see the cat, pacing like a shadow beneath the silver moonlight. It doesn’t stop.  
  
I go back to bed and lie down, the crisp sheets cool under my cheek. And for some unknown reason I find myself weeping, the pillow absorbing the tears as I lie there trying to work out what’s wrong with me. Eventually I wear myself out enough to fall asleep, but not before I remember the desolate sound of his voice.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next day I don’t know what to do with myself. I have nothing to pack, because I came with nothing. The only thing that really belongs to me is his gift of the flower. I pin it into my hair in the morning and dress in the outfit I was wearing that night, that daring concoction of velvet and lace that flaunts my pale skin and flat stomach. It somehow arrived on my bed in the middle of the night, and it would be rude to leave wearing someone else’s clothes. I throw a soft, fitted cashmere cardigan over it; it might be warm in this house but I don’t want to risk being bedridden again, not when I’m so close to getting away.  
  
I find myself wandering the house absently. I suppose I’m saying goodbye to all its marvels. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. I say goodbye to the deafening room of birds, the beautiful, bizarre house of flowers, the blue-skied library where we spent so long drowsing away the daylight. I find my way to the tiny courtyard that looks as if some giant has taken a slice out of the house with a pastry cutter. I look into the deep, ivy-covered bowl, wondering if I’ll be able to see Ni~ya there. But the solid glass has been smashed into pieces. Maybe it was hail, or lightning.  
  
I don’t know when Ni~ya will turn up, and find myself listening with half an ear for his distinctive laugh. But I’m almost relieved when night begins to fall and there’s no sign of him. As soon as it’s dark I go to our room, and the Beast is waiting for me in the murk.  
  
“He’s coming”, are his first words as I enter the room. “He’s turning into the drive. So I wanted to say goodbye now, while I can still talk to you.” His voice is tightly controlled, too calm. I find my knees are weak, and sink down on the plush carpet. I can’t think of anything to say. ‘Goodbye’? It sounds cold, inadequate for the myriad feelings that crowd into my head.  
  
“I’ve got something for you”, he says eventually, shyly, his lovely voice a little hurt at my silence. A red velvet pouch comes flying out of the darkness to land at my feet. When I open it a flat crystal of gleaming glass falls out, the size of my palm, its edges jagged and sharp. What is it?  
  
“Most men give diamonds”, I manage, trying to laugh but failing completely. There’s nothing I can think of to say to him, and my mouth is working without bothering to engage my brain.  
  
“You know there are no jewels that could match you”, he tells me, his voice bitterly sad. “If… if you ever want to see me… you can look in it.”  
  
Suspicion dawns. “Is this from the courtyard?”  
  
“I broke it”, he whispers with strange satisfaction. “How can I stand to look at you when you’re not with me?” He notices my fixed stare at the glass. “I know it seems like a stupid gift, when I think of all the beautiful things you deserve… but I never gave something like this to any of the others.”  
  
“Others?” I say sharply, suddenly jerked from my near-tears state. “You mean I’m not the first to stay with you?”  
  
“No, Beauty, you’re not.” He heaves a sigh.  
  
“What happened to _them_?” I demand, unreasonably affronted.  
  
“They left. Just like you are.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“And then… I forgot them. They forgot me. I knew all along that they were just filling in gaps in my day.”  
  
“Is that what I am?” I whisper, cold all over at the possibility. “Just an amusement?!”  
  
His voice is horrified, denying.  
“You know that’s not true! How could you think that? I want you to try and remember me”, he says, the last words yearning but with no real hope in them. I’m about to cry again, and I try to pretend it’s with anger. Downstairs I hear the front door creak open, and I can’t stop my tears.  
  
“Beauty”, he says, and his voice is so thrillingly sad that I tremble. “If you remember me… will you come and see me in spring? I’d like that.”  
  
“I promise”, I manage, my voice shaking, and as I hear footsteps in the hall I stand up and fly into that darkness for the first time ever, absolutely blind with the blackness and with my tears; I throw my arms around the Beast, human-shaped after all, and then I’m kissing him with all the desperation of an unbearable parting. A gasp of shock and then he returns my kiss, pulling me to him as if he can’t stand to let me go; I stroke his shocking mane of hair and bury my face in his neck, his breathing rapid and shaking in my ear.  
Then as Ni~ya’s voice calls my name from the stairs he pushes me away.  
  
“Go!” he growls and I back away, my gift clutched to my chest.  
  
“I -”  
  
“ _Go_!”  
  
I race out of the room and down the flamboyant staircase. I see the blurred outline of my astonished master and fling myself into his arms.  
  
“Sakito?!”  
  
I shed tears into his luxurious coat.  
“Has it been that bad?” he asks in amazement.  
  
“Take me home!”  
  
He leads me out of the house, shaking his head, and settles me in his car, all flash chrome and silver. It purrs down the drive. As the gates clang shut behind me I feel like something’s died.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
As I found out that night, ‘home’ is no longer the tipsy house. No. My master is rich now with all the luck of his bargain with the Beast, and we live in the capital city in an area so fashionable that I know the prices must be phenomenally high.  
The new house is massive, ostentatious even, just his style. Ni~ya with money is like a child, happily spending and giving generously as if his wealth was bottomless. It makes me smile, but a little sadly, because this huge mansion in all its grandeur is chilly, superficial and as different from the Beast’s house as it could be. There’s no breath of life in its wide corridors. But I suppose it’s pretty enough.  
  
The morning after we return, after Ni~ya had put me to bed because I couldn’t stop crying and he didn’t know how to deal with me, I wake up and have absolutely no idea where I am. I stumble in the dark because no lights come on when I move. I laugh to myself as I turn the taps on and off. How immensely refreshing to be able to do something for myself! Ni~ya finds me in the kitchen grinning stupidly and doing the washing up.  
  
“We do have a dishwasher”, he comments blankly. I just smile at him. He never asks me what happened when I was with the Beast; I think he feels too guilty at his part in the bargain; but he solicitously tries to make sure that I’m happy.  
At first I’m so disoriented by this new lifestyle that I spend hours in my room, wishing I was back in that otherworldly house with my one companion. There’s nothing like being thrown into the jet-set at the deep end to make you wish for solitude.  
  
Ni~ya spends the large amounts of time when he’s not working indulging his taste for wine, women and song. I have to shake my head fondly at his enthusiasm; for the first time in my life, I feel older than him and not much inclined to join up with his playmates.  
  
Instead I let Ruka, his sardonic and increasingly wealthy accountant, take me to films and art galleries and all the things Ni~ya seems to think I need to do to fill my time wisely. I like Ruka, who is quiet with flashes of hot sarcasm and spends most of the time complaining about how much money Ni~ya wastes and the fact that there always seems to be more, very irritating for him because he loves to scold my master. He doesn’t get uncomfortable when I sink into the odd bout of wistful misery but sits there patiently, silently, probably crunching numbers in his head as he waits for the next thought to turn up.  
  
I keep the Beast’s gifts to me in a tiny, ornate cupboard that I think is meant for jewellery. Initially, it was because looking at the rose made a lump rise in my throat and my hands shake. I knew it upset Ni~ya, so I put it away, not letting myself be tempted into longing to return to him. I take it out occasionally, turn it over in my hands and watch it sparkle against my fingers as if it were still covered with frost, but only when I know no-one will be around to see me look so unhappy. Ruka is the exception because he’s convinced that I’m some highly-strung waif and that crying is my normal state. Those nights I dream of the Beast’s voice and it soothes me in my misery.  
  
I never look in the piece of glass. I don’t even know if it _can_ show me the cat, but I don’t want the risk of seeing him with another companion. That would be too painful and so it remains wrapped in velvet, gathering dust by increments.  
  
Gradually, however, I stop opening that cupboard so frequently. It’s not as though I’m deliberately trying to put that time out of my mind; it’s just that it becomes less pressing. Occasionally I think about it, but my memories are becoming fuzzy and dim. There is too much else weighing on my time these days, what with my work, my nights out with Ruka, and trying to fend off the powerful, commanding, beautiful women that Ni~ya introduces me to and who seem unfortunately fascinated with the fact that I have a pretty face and they can boss me around.  
  
“Why don’t you just marry one?” asks Ruka in his usual flat tone of voice as I’m bewailing my latest predicament to him.  
  
“Which one?” I mutter over my drink.  
  
“Doesn’t matter. They’re all rich.” I swear Ruka never thinks of anything else. It’s not as though he’s greedy, he just thinks of everything in life as a transaction. Probably why he’s so successful.  
  
But I can’t get involved with any romantic escapades like my master. At first I knew there was some reason why, some good grounds for keeping my body to myself. But now… I can’t remember what it was. My memory of that time is fading as fast as new experiences crowd their way in, and now I can’t remember if I thought my host was a cat, or whether he _had_ a cat, or…  
  
But never mind. I hear Ruka’s voice raised above Ni~ya’s in a lazy drawl, and run downstairs to meet him.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When you’re living in the city, it’s impossible to tell when the seasons change. Any snow that falls in the night is soon trampled into moisture in any case. Flowers bloom all year round in the windows of florists’ shops and there is too much stone, not enough grass to tell the difference for yourself.  
  
I don’t even realise that spring has come until we’re right in the thick of it, when Ni~ya takes me on a trip to see the blossoms fall. All very pleasant and indolent, with champagne, cushions on soft grass by the river, and Ruka’s sarcastic comments in my ear at all times. It will be summer before we know it.  
  
Was there something important about this? Should I be attaching some significance to it? Something niggles in the back of my mind, but is swiftly drowned out by the deliciously cool wine. I lie back and watch the sun through the spiralling petals, smiling contentedly.  
  
  
We get back home very late that night. Ruka sits in the kitchen, drinking whiskey and berating Ni~ya for his latest bout of extravagance. I say goodnight to them and make my way upstairs to my bedroom and turn on the light. I stare at the switch, remembering it was only a couple of months ago that I found that act fascinating. I wonder why.  
  
As I near the bed an overpowering floral smell hits me, pungent, almost decaying. I look around me but there are no flowers in the room; until I near that tiny cupboard, dust on its doors and its hinges. A pang of disquiet shoots through me. It’s been a long time since I noticed it.  
I open the little door and there is the rose that I’d almost forgotten. It’s dim, no light at all, and beginning to blacken. I snatch it up, feeling my pulse race, and the petals come away in a fug of cloying fragrance, leaving the stem in my hand.  
  
I freeze, open-mouthed, and then clutch at my head as horrible, bright pain shoots through it, and at that instant I know exactly what I’ve done, so many memories and emotions crowding in that I think my head will burst. I reach deeper into the cupboard but my hands are trembling so violently I can hardly catch hold of the little velvet bag. Off comes the wrapping, quick as a flash in my desperation, and in doing so the edges of the glass bite deep into my fingers. I drop it with a short cry of pain.  
I hardly know what I’m doing, so dizzied by horror and guilt that I almost lose my balance. Blood drip, drips onto the piece of silvery glass, pooling on its smooth surface like a premonition.  
  
I don’t even try to pick it up again, just race down the stairs and into the kitchen. Ni~ya is practically asleep at the table  
  
“Ruka!” I scream hysterically. “Get your car!!”  
  
“Do you know how much I’ve had to drink?” he counters.  
  
“I DON’T CARE!” I yell, seeing him wince at the volume. I feel tears streaming down my face, and it must be that which brings him to his feet.  
  
Twenty seconds later we’re in his car, not as flash as Ni~ya’s but no slug, edging above the speed limit down the long, straight roads that lead North. I’m shaking so hard that I feel sick. Every single promise he ever made to me he’s kept; and the one little thing I said I’d do for him…  
  
“Can’t you go any faster?!” I growl at Ruka. I must look terrifying; I catch a glimpse of myself in the wing mirror and my face is dead white, tears making it glisten eerily and blood tracked across it from my fidgeting hands.  
  
“No I can’t!”  
  
Why is that rose dead?! What have I done?  
  
  
Dawn is breaking as Ruka skids the car into the gravel at the bottom of the drive. I leap out, not stopping to thank him, and tear up to the gates. They don’t open and I have to push them with all the strength of desperation before I can squeeze my way in and race up to the house, breathing tortuously in my panic. Everything around me looks dead and desolate.  
  
I bang the door back so it rattles on its hinges. The hall is dim and lit by nothing but the faint fingers of dawn.  
“Beast!!” I yell so that echoes bounce around me as if I were in a ruin. Nothing. Strenuously I run through the rooms, my hand clutching my side, but there are so many corners in this house and no lights to guide me. There’s nothing in the dining-room but a pile of ash in the grate. The birds are silent on their perches. My bedroom is neat and quiet and empty. The library is peaceful as a summer evening. I’m almost wild with panic by now, I find I’m retreading my paces through rooms I know are deserted.  
  
In desperation I fight my way through the disobliging house and finally come to the glasshouse.  
  
Then I see him. I don’t even stop although my brain is freezing with foreboding, but skid to a halt in front of him on my knees. The cat is lying among the stems of the orchids and I can’t see the movement of its ribcage through my terrified tears. I fling my arms around its wide neck, bury my face in its mane; it smells of sickness, a smell of sinister presentiment. I cry into its fur, hitching sobs because I can’t catch my breath, but as I do so I suddenly feel the faint flicker of a pulse. I can’t work out for a second whether it’s mine or the cat’s, but then I feel it again and I’m sure.  
  
“Beast,” I murmur tearfully, too worn out for anything louder. “Please…” The cat’s tail twitches infinitesimally. I leap to my feet, looking around wildly. It’s so dim in here. I spot the brass taps in the corner, but when I rush over to them they don’t turn themselves on. I twist them frantically, but nothing, and then I realise that none of the trapped spirits are doing their jobs, that’s why the gate wouldn’t open, that’s why the lamps are dark! Does that mean he’s… no…  
  
I look up at the glass ceiling and scream loud enough to rattle the panes.  
“You bastards, don’t you dare stop! _Get back to work_!!” I sink to my knees and pray for the first time in my life to anything that might be listening, begging with all of my power, knowing in that moment that I’d happily let a hundred more people die if it would save him, and miraculously I hear the sweet slosh of water into the soil. They’re back!  
I grab an earthy pot and only have the patience to half-fill it before I’m running back to the cat. I try to rouse it enough to drink but it just lies there, looking as still and lifeless as makes no difference. I’m running out of time.  
  
“BEAST!” I yell, my throat raw and cracking at the sound, and dash the water full in its face. “WAKE UP!!”  
  
As I drop back down beside it, the cat’s muzzle twitches. A crack of gold, and one eye is half open.  
“Please…” I beg, tears running down my face as the water is streaming down his. “It’s me… please!” I throw my arms around the cat again, thinking my heart will break, finally understanding that hackneyed phrase. I kiss its damp brow with all the force of my emotion. The cat’s other eye opens. It blinks. Then it rattles a breath and tries to raise its head to nuzzle my ear. I run back over and refill the pot, and hold it while the cat drinks, feebly at first and then ravenously.  
I sit back, feeling as though I’m going to pass out, my breath running ragged in counterpoint with the cat, who licks my hands with a damp tongue. I sink my head into its fur, embracing it.

  
The sun comes up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our supernatural couple messes around with fairy tale cliches in the service of getting laid.

He’s alive.  
  
It was touch and go for a while. If I’d come an hour later… but it hurts to think about it, and besides, everything will be all right now.  
We stayed in that glasshouse for days: I only left to bring him food and to catch a few hours’ sleep in the dead darkness of the early morning. He couldn’t stand, could barely raise his shaggy head to eat what I brought him. The sight of his rough, dull fur made my eyes prick with anger and guilt but I stayed, sitting on the warm soil while he slept with his head pillowed in my lap. Around us the flowers began to bloom again.  
  
Every morning I would stand in the middle of the kitchen and scream at the spirits like a harpy until they started working. I couldn’t care less now that he’d killed them all, and I took control of them as if I had a right to their service, not caring how cruel it was to keep them chained to the house so long as they did what I needed to make him well again.  
  
After a week he managed to stand up and make his way shakily to the warm living room that opened onto the gardens, not with much elegance but determinedly. I sighed with relief. After that he lived in there with the fine French windows open so that he could prowl around outside at night. He wouldn’t let me near him after it was dark then, weak as he was, no argument about it. I wondered if he was prolonging the time before he had to talk to me, whether he was afraid he’d speak to me angrily, accusingly.  
  
In fact, I don’t think I’ve spoken in a month. I personally don’t care if I never speak again, although of course there are questions I want answers to. I miss the sound of his voice though, sometimes so acutely I start imagining it in all the dark corners of the house.  
  
These days we spend most of the time outside, after I’ve done my spell of shouting at the ghosts before breakfast. It’s coming into early summer and warm breezes blow softly through the plants. The cat lies on the sunny grass while I wrestle with the garden. It had died almost completely during the time I was away, but now it’s beginning to be beautiful again. He watches me with an approving eye as I work, my growing hair tied back from my face, wrapped up in long sleeves to stop my fair skin burning.  
  
Still, a lazy mood pervades the house, though recently the cat has got back a lot of his energy and is starting to become playful again. I’m so happy I think I could burst with it on these hot days, my arms around the Beast’s neck, my fingers tangled in his once more sleek mane, the sound of his low, continuous purr in my ears.  
  
  
This morning I wake up later than usual. I clamber out of bed and to my amazement the curtains pull themselves back for me. They’re finally working properly! I wonder if this means the Beast is completely better. Maybe I can stop yelling at them now.  
  
I look out of the window. A perfect, balmy morning. It will be hot today; I can already hear the myriad sounds of insects in the long grass. I throw on some clothes, cool white cotton, and make my way downstairs, the carpet sinking warmly beneath my bare feet. As I’m eating breakfast on the ivy-covered terrace the cat slinks sinuously up to me and rubs against my leg like a housecat, which given his size almost knocks me off my chair.  
  
We go down by the stream today and I begin to prop up the roses that are trailing along the banks, not the freezing white flowers that he gave me once but deep red blooms that look like velvet. The flowers are so heavy that they’re weighing the stems down and they dip precariously towards the water. I fight them back upright using bamboo and twine; each movement releases a cloud of scent that hangs in the still air, so rich that it makes you giddy.  
  
The cat lazes on the opposite bank, watching me with half-closed eyes, his golden coat dappled with shade from the willow trees. When he’s tired of lying still he hangs one paw over the edge of the bank, claws rippling the water, and tries to hook out the silver fish that dart past. It never works, and then he yawns, pretending he wasn’t interested in the first place. I remember how the sight of those teeth used to freeze me with odd fear, but now I only feel a pleasant little shiver.  
  
In the afternoon I stop to rest; the sun is quite fierce and it’s making me drowsy. The cat sits in the grass and I lean back against his furry chest, my bare feet in the gently bubbling water. I never even knew it was possible to feel this contented; I’m sure it’s not normal.  
  
“Beast… do you think it’s _right_ to be this happy?” I ask lazily. A rumble that sounds a little like his human laugh. I grin to myself; stupid question. As if a cat has anything to do with morals.  
  
Without even thinking about it I murmur the words that I never would have believed could pass my lips if you’d asked me in the winter:  
  
  
“Beast. I love you.” I shut my eyes in contentment.  
  
  
There’s a sudden fizz of freezing air behind me, feels like sparks shooting up my back. My eyes slam open again. I twist around to see what’s caused it and find myself staring into a stranger’s face. I yell, and then he yells, and before I know it I’ve fallen off the bank and am up to my neck in cold water. I sputter, feeling as though my heart’s about to give out with shock, half blinded by my wet hair. As I’m trying to work out where I am and what’s happened I hear a voice and I know this must be a dream.  
  
“ _Beauty_!”  
  
A sharp-nailed hand grabs my arm, a hand as familiar as my own, and tugs me bodily out of the water. I struggle at the edge of the bank and then collapse forward, landing heavily and knocking the breath out of my rescuer.  
  
I brush my hair out of my face and open my eyes, but they’re still blurry with river water. I shake my head like a dog and try again. I stare down at the stunned face beneath me, my eyes playing tricks on me. There must be something in them still, because I recognise this face although I’m equally sure I’ve never seen it before in my life. My face must look a picture because the stranger suddenly exclaims,  
  
“Beauty! Beauty, are you all right?!”  
  
I’ve been dreaming about that voice every night, yearning to hear it so badly. I gape, my mouth hanging open unflatteringly. Maybe he thinks I’m concussed or something, because he lifts his hands to gently cup my face, pushing the wet hair out of my eyes.  
  
“It’s me. Don’t you know me?” I want to shake my head but oh, I know that voice! I’m shaking as I cover his hand with my cold fingers.  
  
“You… _Beast_?!”  
He nods and then smiles like sunshine. I take a long, proper, befuddled look at the man beneath me. It’s difficult, because the cat’s features seem to slip over his face if I look at it from a certain angle. He looks young, as young as me, and almost completely human so that it would be hard to tell the difference. But I can see the stamp of the cat in his mane of chocolate and honey-coloured hair which stands up in a luxurious frill around his pale face. And in his elegant, feline nose and his sharp white teeth as he smiles encouragingly, but most of all in his large, peculiar eyes which are the cat’s to a tee, the irises shot with shifting colours and ringed widely with black. And it’s when I look into those eyes and find myself wanting to sink into his gaze, to burn myself up in it, that I finally know him.  
  
“Beast!” I gasp, still flabbergasted, and thump my fist excitedly against his chest. “What’s happening?!” He winces, breathing fast, and I realise I’m lying spread-eagled on top of him. My treacherously fine skin flushes up and I try to climb off him and let him breathe, but he quickly winds one arm around my waist and pulls me closer until our faces almost touch. He stops, staring into my eyes as though he could eat me up, but _enough of this_ , I think, and lean down and kiss him hard on the mouth, and yes, I recognise _this_ , too, a sensation I thought I’d never feel again. His heart is beating faster against me and I cradle his sweet face in my hands, still half disbelieving, my wet clothes soaking into his but not wanting to stop even if this is a dream.  
  
When I run out of breath I lift my head again, my pulse fluttering unsteadily, and sit up. I clamber up, then reach down and pull him to his feet. He looks thoroughly flustered, a shy blush spreading across his cheeks, and I notice that I’m a little taller than him although far slighter. He’s dressed in odd, old-fashioned clothes, velvet and tulle and brocade, now damp and ruined.  
  
I’ve never known him to be at such a loss for words. He looks so sweetly confused as he tries to speak.  
“What… I don’t… Beauty, will you please tell me what’s happening?”  
  
All of a sudden I have a pretty good idea what’s happened, but now is not the time for explanations: desire is pushing through me unstoppably as I look at his sharp teeth, see his beautiful eyes fixed upon me, hear his voice.  
  
“Later”, I tell him firmly. Where has all this power I’m feeling come from? He stands there looking lost, so I grab him by the collar and kiss him again, then drag him across the lawns and into the house.  
  
  
It’s dark inside; looks like the spirits are striking again, but I don’t have time for them. I lead him by the hand up the showy staircase, knowing what I want for the first time in my life, no ambiguity about it now.  
When we reach my bedroom he stops and looks into my eyes, and whatever he sees there makes him blush even deeper.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asks quietly.  
  
“Keep on talking”, I whisper, pulling him close to brush my mouth over his. “You have no idea how _every word_ you speak makes me want you”.  
  
“You don’t know what you want”, he tells me, a low growl creeping into his voice that makes my knees weak with craving. I look him in the eye.  
  
“I do.” And then he kisses me, unasked, for the first time ever, lustfully, and suddenly I feel deliciously and dangerously trapped. He grabs my damp shoulders and pushes me into the room, I’m walking backwards blindly, and then I tumble onto the bed. He catches me swiftly just before I hit the covers, surprisingly strong for his build, and lowers me gently onto the linen. He smiles a loving, predatory smile as his eyes run over me and I swear I’ve never felt so innocent, so naïve as to think I could lead this.  
  
“Do you still know what you want, Beauty?” he murmurs in a voice that sends rills of desire along my spine and I give myself up for lost gladly. As he leans over me I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down until my mouth meets his again, not slowly this time but ravenously, feeling the edges of his sharp canines on my tongue. His arms slide around my narrow waist and I feel the pinpricks of his short, sharp nails on my back, making me arch up into his embrace in a fever of hunger.  
  
When my breathing grows dangerously fast he lifts his head, looking like a cat that’s got the cream, as it were, and smiling so seductively that I can’t meet his gaze. Instead I reach up and presumptuously tear off his cravat of gauze and lace, my fingers already on the buttons of his jacket. He sits up so that he’s out of reach, tantalisingly, and I find myself making a little moue of frustration.  
  
“Be careful, Beauty”, he purrs. He pushes me back until I’m lying amid the pillows. His fingers trail down the side of my cheek, an echo of that fevered encounter before I’d even seen his face. They run over my neck, thrilling me with precarious sensation; he taps one fingernail in the hollow of my throat and I feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Infinitesimally slowly he slides his hand down my white skin, unbuttoning my sodden shirt, unwrapping me as though I were an expensive gift, until I want to shout in frustration but I can’t seem to speak. Off come my clothes, dropped into a little pile on the carpet, the sunny breeze from the open window whispering over my skin.  
  
I begin to shiver, my damp skin chilling in the air, until he covers me with his body, luxuriously warm. He sets his lips to my throat, kissing me gently, almost reverently, his hands running the length of my legs, silky touch against my smooth skin. I let out a low moan, not able to stop myself, and his mouth moves teasingly lower, his mane of hair tickling my chest. He flicks his clever tongue over my left nipple and then I have to gasp as I feel the soft jab of his teeth over my heart, not even breaking the skin but making me faint with pleasurable apprehension nevertheless.  
  
He seems to spend so long teasing me unbearably, kissing me all over my body, playing with me like a cat plays with its prey until I’m wrapped in a hopeless cycle of desire and frustration that I think will never be satisfied, not that I’m thinking very clearly at all at this point.  
  
“Please…” I beg, ready to do anything if he’ll just end this sweet torture. He looks up at me, mouth dangerously close to the skin of my stomach, and is finally serious, his wide-ringed eyes dilated with hunger. His smooth skin glows faintly with heat as I pull him up by his hair, as he lets me remove his clothes with inexperienced, fumbling, passionate fingers. Now it’s my turn to grin as I sit up and embrace him, skin on damp skin, and I hear the catch in his breath as I touch him delicately; I let him hide his face in my neck so I don’t have to see his expression. I twist my fingers softly in his rich hair, his breath hot against my shoulder. This is what power feels like! In giving myself up to him, he’s becoming mine.  
  
My smile turns to a sharp inhalation of breath as he brings his teeth to meet lightly in the nape of my neck; it’s as though he can tell what I’m thinking and is playfully chiding me. Hand on my back he lowers me to the bed once again and kisses me deeply, his caresses more insistent; I curl my legs around his hips, needing desperately to draw breath but unwilling to part my mouth from his, trying to press myself closer to him.  
  
“Are you _sure_?” he breathes, his voice compelling me to more insistent desire.  
  
“ _I want it_ ”, I protest as my eyes meet his, so deep under the spell of his voice that I don’t think I’ll be able to survive if he stops now.  
The smothering scent of roses is intoxicating in the room, making me feel as though I’m floating, my eyes fluttering closed under its ponderous weight. His fingers are slick as they slip between my legs and I let out a tiny whimper at the alien feeling. He pauses but I kiss him abruptly, tacit permission to continue one of the most intense sensations I’ve ever felt.  
  
When he enters me I can’t help crying out, the pain is a shock, but the sound is muffled by his mouth over mine, kissing me tenderly, almost apologetically. My hands twist in the bed sheets, I’ve never felt anything like it, my breath short and jerky as he begins to move slowly, his hands stroking my back soothingly as if I were made of precious china. Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I begin to lose all my coherence in his loving embrace.  
  
“Beauty?” His voice is unsteady with suppressed pleasure and concern. He strokes the hair back from my damp brow.  
  
“Don’t you stop!” I hiss, burning with helpless ardour as he speaks my name. When he looks at me askance I cling to him tighter. “Beast… I love you! Don’t stop…”  
  
I moan softly with gratified happiness at his renewed movement and tangle my hands in his dishevelled mane, my own silken hair spread around me on the pillow, my eyes closing as it becomes more intense, feeling the piercing edges of his nails as he crushes me closer to him, his teeth resting deliciously against the frail skin of my throat. I don’t think he even knows what he’s doing now but the pleasure with its sugaring of delicate pain is as mesmerising as his rapid breathing, I can feel a hitherto unknown feeling rushing up from inside me and I can’t stop myself, I cling to my Beast as I climax and now I know why they say when you’re in love it’s magic. He finishes a moment after, muffling a low growl in my throat and setting my sensitised skin all aquiver with mixed pleasure and emotion.  
  
I open my eyes. The first thing I see is his beloved gaze, limpid eyes wide and dilated and loving. He carefully lifts his soft weight off me and I’m able to breathe freely again. I’m reeling from a perplexing mixture of feelings: I feel shockingly empty, not just physically but as though something has gone out of myself, but at the same time so contented, so radiant with reciprocated love that I can’t stop smiling as he pulls me to him. I rest my head on his pale chest, half expecting to hear the rumble of his satisfied purr.  
  
“I’m so in love with you”, he tells me, beautiful voice dazed with amazement and affection. It sends a ripple of warmth through me. The summer breeze blows in, dispersing the smell of roses and cooling the sweat on my skin.  
  
“My Beast”, I say smugly, looking up at him to see his fantastic eyes. They soften at my words.  
  
“My name is Hitsugi”, he says with the air of a man imparting a great secret. “It means ‘coffin’.”  
  
“Is that supposed to scare me?”  
  
He shakes his head, smiling wryly.  
  
“I like Beast better”, I decide.  
  
“Whatever you want me to be, Beauty”, he says softly. “But… what happened?”  
  
I roll over and lean my arms on his chest familiarly.  
“Isn’t it obvious? I thought you would have guessed by now.”  
  
“I haven’t exactly had a lot of time to think about things”, he retorts.  
  
“It was there in all those stories. You even told me the reason yourself. It was you who pointed out what I am… what I was until just now.” I wink at him and he blushes, so pretty. “A person like me has power, that’s what you said. But in all those stories the power was in a kiss. I don’t know why that didn’t apply here. But when I told you I loved you… you changed.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow lazily, the cat characteristics resurfacing. “You know what I think of the frog theory.”  
  
I hit him lightly on the shoulder.  
“All the same. I don’t think stories care what _you_ think, Beast. In that moment I had power, and that’s that.”  
  
“And now… you’ve given it up”, he murmurs. “All that power”.  
  
“I love you”, I repeat calmly. “What else would I have done?” I settle down against him. “Besides. Virgin or not, I have it. You’re mine. Forever.”  
  
He acknowledges the truth of it. We kiss and I fall back happily under his spell.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
I live in a house whose inside is bigger than its outside, magic twined around all its twisting staircases.  
  
The spirits are gone. I sent them off firmly the very next day, and my Beast had to learn how to cook his own dinner. I don’t miss them.  
  
I’ve never been outside the grounds since then. They seem to expand endlessly in any case, to fit to my imagination. I haven’t seen another person in all this time.  
  
I’ve been here for more than fifty years now. I still look the same as the first day I came. When I look in the mirror the same beautiful face stares back at me. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened to me if I’d never come back, if I’d never come here at all. I might have been happy. It doesn’t matter.  
  
I live with a Beast, and he loves me. Without meaning to, I’ve become part of a fairytale. We live in the proverbial happy ever after, and the roses bloom around us.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So, I also started writing a Nightmare Snow White with Ni~ya (I mean, skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony? Who better?), but he wouldn't behave. Ni~ya does not make a good damsel :)


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